


Re-Read, Reviewed, Re-Imagined, Recommended

by Euphoric_Mandelbulb



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bits Of Meta, Books, Criticism, Gen, Milk, Pre-Reichenbach, Reading, Related Fandoms, TV Adaptations, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1434355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euphoric_Mandelbulb/pseuds/Euphoric_Mandelbulb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What sort of books does the modern Sherlock Holmes like to read? What turn-of-the-twentieth-century literary detective do his contemporaries know? And where has the milk ended up THIS time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Re-Read, Reviewed, Re-Imagined, Recommended

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sherlock Holmes, Petticoat Detective (from the blog of Dr. John H. Watson)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/121163) by [verity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity). 



> Set at any time in series 2.
> 
> Very slight spoilers for “The Great Game”, and for a Pratchett novel.
> 
> Not beta'd, because I have no beta :-( Did not need Britpicking, because I am British :-)

“It's a bilingual pun,” Sherlock murmured sleepily from the sofa, over an hour before he was supposed to wake up.   
(The current client had “selfishly” gone to bed, hence wouldn't be sending more data until the end of the Korean night. This had left Sherlock unable to make any further progress for at least six hours, so John had pointed out that the case was not technically _on_ during this time – rather like a court case going on overnight hiatus – and that, if Sherlock ate something at the start of the break, it would be digested by the time he awoke from the sleep he **was** going to endure. Sherlock had eventually acquiesced, simply because this plan was marginally less boring than waiting. He had, however, deliberately fallen asleep on the sofa rather than in his bedroom, as a minor act of passive-aggressive protest.)  
  
“The clue? Yes, I know; I've read this before.”  
  
“Then why are you reading it again? You know the ending, every supposed 'twist', every plot device – you have a good memory for details, it's an important skill for a doctor and it's occasionally evident in your blog despite your tendency to select the most ridiculously trivial ones. That copy of the book holds no sentimental value for you – it's in poor condition, and the creased corner of the front cover is revealing a pencilled price and date inside: so, a cheap and battered second-hand copy, probably from a charity shop, and you don't care about it enough even to rub out the pencil. No bookmarks or deliberately-folded corners, no sections which you've lingered over, so no passages which hold particular meaning or significance for you. So: why re-read an unremarkable copy of a familiar but insignificant book?”  
  
“I often re-read books, Sherlock. So do most people. I usually spot things I missed -”  
  
Sherlock tutted and muttered something about observation.  
  
“- and bits that the ending puts a new slant on, or that the later books redefine... I take it _you_ don't re-read books? The Mind Palace stores them verbatim, I'm guessing?”  
  
“That's the main reason, certainly. Have you really not realised that I _immediately_ run new data against all preceding plot, as with a case, even during subsequent books? I CANNOT derive any benefit from re-reading.”  
  
“Shame, really. I mean, yes it's great for the Work, but you can't turn it off. You have to find new books constantly... Must have been hellish for whoever read you bedtime stories.”  
  
“Hardly: they kept all of Mycroft's old 'approved' books. Besides, I barely ever read fiction, John. It's almost entirely predictable, hackneyed, DULL.”  
  
“You've read _this_ , though?”  
  
“Above-average stylistic ability, even if his cases are never above a five,” Sherlock grudgingly admitted.  
  
“Might help me with the blog, then?”  
  
Sherlock made a non-committal noise.  
  
“Why did you _start_ reading something like this, anyway?”  
  
“I've told you already.”  
  
“...you have?”  
  
“CASES, John. In extremis, a sufficiently well-written work of fiction can act as a case.”  
  
“By _sufficiently_ , you mean...?”  
  
“I can deduce the general plot of most books from the mere _synopsis_ -”  
  
“Yes, I know. I wish you wouldn't keep doing that before I've read them.”  
  
“Saves you hours of wasted time. And surely you can still enjoy the 're-read value'?”  
  
“...maybe. Still even more annoying than nicking them and leaving your recommendations in their place.”  
  
“You usually enjoy the books I choose for you.”  
  
“True, but can't I finish the ones I pick too?”  
  
“Absolutely not. They'll destroy your intellect, and they're a bad influence on your writing style.”  
  
“Speaking of which: Discworld? Wouldn't have thought that was your sort of thing.” Mind you, mused John, he couldn't really think of any fiction which he _would_ have pegged as Sherlock's sort of book.  
  
“I was young, inexperienced, little access to police cases; I used the higher-quality fantasy and science-fiction as outside-context problems, to develop the correct thinking patterns and deductive methods.”  
  
“Outside-context?”  
  
“Similar concept to the military practise of developing protocols for such impossible scenarios as a zombie apocalypse or alien invasion – as a thought exercise, practise in dealing with the unfamiliar and unpredictable. Cases from a different setting, culture, universe – few or none of the standard social guidelines and/or laws of physics. The case must be solved by pure logic, or the context analysed and the rules deduced. Good practise for unusual cases; a pity that there are so few original thinkers writing fiction, never mind capable of writing a decent case. Or committing one.”  
  
“Sturgeon's Law very much applies to speculative fiction in particular, I've found.”  
  
Sherlock turned to face John for the first time, giving him the “what is this human concept of which you speak” look.  
  
“'Ninety percent of everything is crap',” John clarified.  
  
“Generously rounded down. Ninety-eight percent, minimum.”  
  
“Very possibly. Why aren't you asleep?”  
  
“I woke up.”  
  
“Go back to sleep. You've got another hour or so before your client – oh, starts in five minutes...”  
  
John hauled himself out of his armchair and hurried to the kitchen, where he removed the teabag from a steaming mug then stared into the depths of the fridge for longer than he would have preferred. (Norman had long since been returned to Molly in the hatbox within which he had left the morgue, but the fridge interior remained a sight best endured in bursts of under one second. Unless you were Sherlock, to whom it looked fascinating on a good day and merely frustrating on a bad one.)  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“There was a GALLON of milk in the fridge this morning. Where is it now?”  
  
“Thermos flasks.”  
  
John regarded the row of Thermos flasks in despair.  
  
“Do I want to know what you've put in the milk this time?”  
  
“Quite possibly. Take a look; judge for yourself.”  
  
John cautiously removed the lid of one flask, peered inside, then sniffed suspiciously.  
  
“Why, exactly, did you feel the need to turn _all_ of the milk to yoghurt? Is there some deadly _Lactobacillus_ I haven't heard of? Or are you testing a theoretical yoghurt-based poisoning method?”  
  
“Yoghurt is more interesting than milk.”  
  
“...you're going to eat this.”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
“That wasn't a question.”  
  
“Four minutes until your programme starts.”  
  
“So, I have to watch it with black tea?”  
  
“Top left-hand cupboard, on the right.”  
  
“...Where the hell did you get a whole box of these, Sherlock?”  
  
“Trolley-pusher on the Victoria to Portsmouth service, wouldn't even accept payment; I once proved him innocent of a spate of severe lavatory vandalism, saved his job.”  
  
“ _Lavatory vandalism_?!”  
  
“That month was spectacularly tedious.”  
  
“Charming. But why _these_? Were you just desperate to not technically break your duck?”  
  
“More sensible. Won't all go off after two days, and leaves more room in the fridge.”  
  
“Ah, _now_ I see... Please, not another severed head.”  
  
“Three minutes.”  
  
John wrestled with one of the plastic milk-pots, which discharged into his face.  
  
“Oh. I'd predicted trousers.”  
  
John fought down the urge to throw the box at his friend, wiped his face with the Food Teatowel (the one with NOT FOR SHERLOCK embroidered on it in purple – a gift from Mrs Hudson following the last time she'd tried to clean their kitchen), and found scissors to subdue the next pot.   
He triumphantly returned to his armchair, bearing his tea (amidst grumbles about “milk first”, which he ignored because such a practise was currently almost impossible, the teapot having died at approximately 4am as a direct result of being used as emergency containment for an unexpected minor explosion), and turned on BBC1.  
  
“NO. Absolutely not. I won't tolerate this.” Sherlock had turned slightly grey, at odds with his furious expression.  
  
“You may not like her, but I do -”  
  
“Only because she's clearly gay and you enjoy the occasional...” Sherlock's eyebrows raised disdainfully, “private fantasy.”  
  
“I d- that has _nothing_ to do with anything. _You_ just don't like her because the Yarders keep making stupid jokes about you being a Thoroughly Modern Male Madelyn Mack: acting shocked when you wear purple or white shirts with your black suits, offering you cola, asking if you wear a corset.”  
  
“John, when have I ever wasted time and energy on caring about what those morons say? I simply refuse to sit through -”  
  
“Recline through.”  
  
“ - such simplistic, sensationalised nonsense!”  
  
“Well, _I_ am _going_ to watch this, so how about you sleep through it?”  
  
“I can't: I'll be able to _hear_ it, John.”  
  
“You do have a bedroom. It even has a bed in it. In fact, why weren't you sleeping in there?”  
  
“Oh, this is ridiculous – barely into the credits and she's waving that blasted spy gadget...  
  
And here we go, she's SO _graceful_ and _pretty_ and _elegant_ and _charming_ and _sophisticated_ , but with just a few _charming_ little TAWDRY quirks to make her _interesting_!  
... They're milking the subtext, Nora's visually undressing her.  
At least they've toned down the straw-misandry a little...”  
  
John sighed. His thanks went out once again to whoever invented subtitles – his eyes could concentrate on programmes while his ears dealt with Sherlock's (frequently entertaining) running commentary and picked out the occasional demands for responses. He usually enjoyed Sherlock's criticisms and pithy remarks, actually – it was worth sometimes having to re-watch online if he missed a good bit.  
  
  
“Why does she wander off into the middle of nowhere when there could be a case at any moment?”  
  
“She's frivolous, she's too focused on the money; does she devote any time whatsoever to study and research?”  
  
“Ugh, I see they haven't dealt with the nauseating reinforcement of her 'lovable eccentricity' every few minutes. As if the true consulting detectives of reality and fiction are somehow _unacceptable_ just for being dedicated, _disciplined_ , PROFESSIONAL!”  
  
“No, NO, that is not _possible_ in a standard corset, I have results from three separate experiments which prove it! Why is she even _wearing_ a corset during a case?”  
  
“Isn't the case stimulation enough?! Does she not have the self-discipline to stay awake unaided?”  
  
“Nora still doesn't DO anything!”  
  


***About one hour later***

  
 “Well, _I_ enjoyed it. I can't help but wonder what they'll do about Purple Thumb, though – bit infamous, that-”  
  
“Inherited HIV. Similar stigma and effect on relationship with parents, causes day-to-day issues, could potentially bring shame upon parents as well as self. Wedding _ex machina_ will probably be replaced with enforced cohabitation due to adverse circumstances, addressed at the end with either continuation or postponement.”  
  
“...you're probably right. All sounds pretty likely. Ever thought of producing some adaptations of your own favourites next time you're really bored, if you're so sick of the stuff on telly so far?”  
  
“I don't understand why they insist on _repeatedly_ adapting all of the most uninspired rubbish, yet so few of the semi-acceptable fictional cases. Conan Doyle's collection would be ideal, even Dupin at a push despite his showiness -”  
  
“Hypocrite. And Dupin's hardly _neglected_ , Sherlock; they used to drag him out for an airing every ten years or so, but there's only so much you can do with just three cases that everyone knows the answers to. Oh - though don't forget _Dauphin_ , that's essentially “what if Dupin were a pathologist”, in case you hadn't worked that out from Molly's ramblings by now.”  
  
Sherlock gave John an uncomprehending look – evidently unfamiliar with the programme and unable to recall any of the Molly-logues in question, what a surprise.  
  
“And yet nine times out of ten they go for bungling Lecoq, predictable Mack, Christie's miserable amateurs!” Sherlock continued unabated.  
  
“Lowest common denominator, Sherlock. As you've said yourself, practically everyone is an idiot. They won't be inspired by a seven, they'll just give up and turn it off because it doesn't make sense to them.”  
  
Sherlock groaned in despair.  
  
“No-one has even _looked_ at...”  
  
He trailed off, his face alight with a plan. He began to do something with his phone.  
  
“What? What hasn't anyone looked at?”  
  
“One of the few books I've ever re-read in any form – purely because I realised how much obscure vocabulary I could gain from the German translation. About a six, maybe a little less... hmm, make that 5.85: I spotted all the misdirection, and worked out the full solution by about halfway through the book, but still quite imaginative – and the characters' near-total lack of experience or in-universe historical precedent does offer _some_ excuse for their taking so _very_ long to make such obvious connections and deductions. Needed a better editor though – ridiculously high frequency of typos and misplaced wording. If the author would stop campaigning and start storytelling more often, he'd probably be far more well-known – and the world, dare I say it, might gain a few more books worth reading.”  
  
“Which book's this, Sherlock?”  
  
“You'll find out in -” one last stab at the phone, a triumphant grin - “one-to-three weeks.”

 

***Two weeks later***

  
“Trilateral... hairy... sentient pseudocrustaceans... Sherlock, what on Earth...”  
  
“ _Not_ on Earth. That's the point, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> John is reading “Feet of Clay” by Terry Pratchett. I chose that one because Sherlock's fall is brought about by a scheme involving a bilingual joke (though not a pun).  
> “Speculative fiction” is an all-encompassing term for science fiction, fantasy, science fantasy and everything in-between and vaguely related (e.g. alternate-history).  
> The milk-pots referenced are those little plastic tubs of UHT milk found near coffee machines, on train snack-trolleys, etc.  
> The TV series is entirely fictional, but is supposed to be a modernised adaptation of “Miss Madelyn Mack, Detective” by Hugh Cosgro Weir, which is actually a sort of Holmes pastiche. In 1910s USA, with a female detective (based on a real person) and her female chronicler. The “spy gadget” is her pocket telephone, a line-tapping device (I think).  
> All the opinions of various detectives are Sherlock's, not mine. Some of them (Lecoq and Dupin) are based on actual lines from the original “Study in Scarlet”.  
> “Dauphin” is my idea of the Sherlock!verse equivalent of “House”. Inspired by comments on http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/811986.html.  
> Although Christie didn't write “Murder On The Orient Express” in Sherlock!verse (http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/17june), she could still have written at least some of the works we know.  
> The book Sherlock mentions at the end – and buys for John to read – is “Their Majesties' Bucketeers” by L. Neil Smith (not to be confused with the American cult founder). It's a Holmes pastiche set on an alien planet. All the characters are lamviin (the local sentient species). They are, as John says in this fic, trilaterally symmetrical, hairy, sentient pseudocrustaceans. With nine hands. I am not making this up. Go and look up the book if you don't believe me – they've just published the second edition, which has much more accurate cover art, a less ambiguous blurb, and a slightly less boring spine. Sherlock's grumbles are all justified, and not corrected in the new edition, but it's easy enough to ignore them – the story's good anyway. And, if you're as skilled a detective as Sherlock, you too can solve the mystery by about halfway through! It is possible, although at least one clue requires a bit of inference. (No, I didn't solve it before the characters did.)


End file.
